Inception
by CosmicInbalance
Summary: Oneshot. In Batman: Year One, we see Bruce ring the bell that calls Alfred into the room after he decides he will become Batman. What happens immediately after? Dream sequence.


Inception

A/N: No, not like the movie. Only sorta kinda. Inspired mostly by V for Vendetta, oddly enough.

Disclaimer: No, of course not.

…

The bell chimed softly.

"Master Bruce? Dear god! What—"

"A bat, Alfred. I shall become a bat."

…

A cool breeze ruffled the thinning hair on Alfred Pennyworth's hair as he knelt by his charge, needle flashing in and out of flesh mechanically in the moonlight. Bruce Wayne did not flinch at the pain. Blood loss made him woozy and numb, hardly able to keep a grasp on his thoughts, let alone pain. His steel-bright eyes were steady and unblinking, however. Focused only on the goal, the mission, the symbol. The Bat.

I shall become a bat. He felt the urge to say it again, to taste it: metal and gunpowder and blood on his tongue. Even through the haze, he had never felt such elation simply because _he knew._ He knew how to do it, how to save Gotham. _Thank you, Father._

…

A million miles away, Gotham was awake, breathing, screaming. The streets were calling his name as he lay between silken sheets in his father's room in his father's house. _Not tonight._ I have what I need. I have a way. Tomorrow. Tomorrow the world will change.

Bruce Wayne does not yet know that it already has, that it changed with the screech of a bat, a crack of a gun, a clattering of pearls, a ringing of a bell. He does not yet see. He will.

Darkness, his friend, his enemy, consumes him, and Bruce Wayne drifts off to sleep . And the Batman, the man he is/was/will be right up to the _end of all things_, the man who is more than just a man, _shows him things._ Terrible, beautiful, _wonderful _things.

…

It begins in a cave. A cold stone womb not meant for mere men. It arches high into the darkness, a cathedral, silent and imposing. The boy is frightened. He feels the fear, hot and cold and _alive_ in his chest. Something shifts in the darkness. A high, trembling scream flies through pale lips, echoing rebounding, becoming louder and louder. The bats' screeches blend into a terrible harmony with the boy's cry. They whip past his face, smelling animal and elemental, claws, fur, noise, and beating leather filling his every sense. And then they are gone. The boy trembles and sobs silently. In the distance, back in the world of light, he imagines that his father is calling his name, his mother silently weeping and praying that her boy is unhurt. In the darkness, something shuffles out of sight. And _hisses._ Huge, black, unafraid, unconquerable. A gleam of red eyes, a scalloped edged wing. An ancient warrior, as deadly and graceful as an Amazon, as powerful as a god. The Bat claims him for the first time.

…

The blood sizzles against the cold pavement, swirling with the rain that hisses down from the sky like the tears the boy cannot cry. _They are gone._ His constants. His unshakable faith. His unbreakable love. His parents. _Why? _He wishes he could shout the question. But he cannot. He can only sit there and watch the blood stain the pearls pink. In the aftermath of the man, the _nonentity_, that stole his parents' lives from him with that _hateful, hateful _, the world is silent. The rain is cold. His face is carved of the same stone that shapes the cave. And his heart cries out for _vengeance._

…

_If you flinch. If you shudder. You will die._ The ninja's voice hisses in his ear as the blindfold is tightened. The boy does not laugh. The threat is real, close, and he feels almost alive. He bows, fist pressed into his palm, ready. The first strike slices the air where he stood a heartbeat ago. He is behind his assailant, he is attacking the next. He breathes steadily. In-out-in-out. Another down, more to go. His mind notes the number, while analyzing the movements in the air, assessing the imperceptible noises of shifting bodies and black cloth. Block, nerve strike, duck, move punch, kick, flip. A dance, beautiful and deadly. He has it mastered. It seems like eternity before the last man falls. He does not sweat. He is barely even breathing hard. He bows again. In the back of his mind, he knows that there is one last thing missing. He has the skills. He knows it will _never_ be enough.

…

Gotham glimmers and shines, looking like an accomplishment. Hiding its filth behind bright neon and flashing lights. The Batman knows better. Already, on his first night, he has stopped four robberies, six muggings, two attempts at rape, and a murder. He breaths the polluted air and becomes one with the shadows, flying from rooftop to rooftop. His scallop-edged cape swirls behind him as he flies above _his_ city. Tomorrow the police station will be in a panic. The criminals will try and stick to the same shadows he calls home. The dirty cops will hear the whispers and get clean or get caught. The good people will go on with their lives, a little awed, a little frightened. Is he real? What is he? Can he fly? Is he a devil, a demon, a god? Behind the empty eyes of the mask, the boy almost smiles.

…

The memories, visions, dreams come faster now. Years blur together like the bats did in the cave so long ago—or was it yesterday? A good cop slowly learns to trust a legend. A symbol of darkness meets a man made of sunlight—a man with a red cape. An old man watches his charge become one with the dark. A boy's parents fall and he falls into the arms of a myth. A flash of black. A yellow cape, green boots, red suit. Pixie boots and short pants. A robin flies. Then another. In the darkness, a man with a ruby-red grin laughs and twirls a crowbar matted with tufts of black hair and dark blood. The boy next door learns the secret, learns to fly. His allies grow. The girl, the hunter, the silent assassin, the blonde, the demon-boy who is really his son. His enemies grow. Riddles and plants, dastardly double schemes, ice and fire and so many more . The man who laughs. The Batman lives and dies and is reborn. Eternal. A watchful guardian, a silent protecter. A dark knight. He is legend undefinable, the center of a network of life and death that reaches from the beginning to the end of time.

…

He is old and dying. The cave, once full of life, is empty and cold once more. The bats shift in the shadows of his mind. The darkness, his old friend, creeps nearer. The boy smiles, his withered fingers caressing the bullets, the pearls, the bell. It was so long ago. It was yesterday. He sees it all

…

Bruce does not remember his dream when he wakes up promptly at six and begins his morning routine of a hundred sit-ups, push-ups, and pull-ups each. He sips the nutrient drink that Alfred presents him. He looks out the window in the direction of Gotham. It calls to him, and he feels a familiar stirring of frustration. Then he remembers. The shadows in the room deepen. Alfred almost shudders at the change that comes over Master Bruce. "I'm ready, old friend," growls the Batman. Alfred pauses, unsure if Master Bruce is addressing him or the city. So he stays silent. Bruce traces his new stitches absently. The first scar of many. Somehow, he knows it. Detective work is like remembering, after all.


End file.
